


Kamikaze

by damselindisguise



Category: Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: Crime Fighting, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Moving On, Organized Crime, Pain, Responsibility, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 03:16:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17215982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damselindisguise/pseuds/damselindisguise
Summary: With Dawn gone, Hank has nothing to live for. Dick feels responsible, and not just for that.





	Kamikaze

**Author's Note:**

> ((A/N: I own nothing, and intend no copyright infringement. I wrote this all in one sitting, and honestly didn't edit it, so I hope it's good. It's not set at any specific time in the season, since I haven't actually finished the season all the way through yet. Also, despite Dick hating on Bruce a lot in this story, I love Bruce- just a disclaimer! Anyway, hope you enjoy!))

They bury Dawn on a rainy Thursday, standing a few feet apart from each other, with Garfield and Kory standing in the distance. They didn't know her well enough to feel comfortable at her funeral, so they decided to give the others their space.

Hank is holding flowers, twisting them in his big hands and staring at the petals to avoid seeing the casket lowered into the cold, dark ground. Dick, on the other hand, is staring right at it, his lips pressed tight together and his chin tighter yet. Rachel has tears in her eyes. Neither of the three have spoken, though Dick thought Hank might, and Rachel had sensed at first that he would; then he didn't. Perhaps it was just too hard for him, in the end.

He throws the flowers into the grave when the casket is all the way in, and stares at them, laying there limp, petals arching towards the sky, as if preparing to rise again. He knows they won't.

There is a dove on her headstone.

~

At the apartment, after, Dick sets the pizza he picked up on the way back on the table and then seats himself in the far corner as Garfield starts eating. Rachel, uncharacteristically, isn't hungry, and he's not sure he's ever seen Kory eat anything anyway.

Hank is in the living room alone, his back to the rest of them. He's leaned back at first, but eventually he props his elbows on his knees and stares at the floor, shoulders shaking slightly. It's all Dick needs to see to know the man is sobbing silently, though Bruce taught him to read body language even better than that, and would be disappointed in how clouded his protege's mind has become at the loss of a friend– a friend, at that, that Bruce never wanted him to have. In fact, forbade him to have– and perhaps it would have saved him the pain, but at least he knew her smile, and her kind voice.

"Should I ask if he's hungry?" Garfield turns to look at Dick. 

He shakes his head. "Let him be."

Kory looks between the two, and then levels a stare at Dick. Of all of them, he knows Hank best, and he knew Dawn best, as well. It should be him, if anyone is going to go to talk to the grieving man. He knows that as well as she does, and doesn't need her to tell him, in that regard, but, at the same time, he's hesitant. Hank has never liked him all that well, especially since his and Dawn's ill-fated tryst prior to her and Hank's much longer, much healthier relationship.

"Hey, do you guys mind taking that in the guest room?" Dick asks Rachel and Garfield. "Give me and Hank a little privacy."

"Sure," Rachel says, and picks up the pizza box, heading into the extra bedroom with the latter in tow. 

"I'll go outside," Kory says, giving Dick a knowing look before she exits through the front door, and leaves him alone with Hank, who is no longer shaking. He's clearly aware that the other man is about to come over to talk to him, and, knowing Hank, is both trying his best to look strong, and unwilling to show any sign of weakness in front of anyone other than Dawn– particularly Dick himself.

"Hey, Hank," he says, as he walks into the living room, sticking his hands deep into his pockets as he goes.

"The fuck do you want?" the other vigilante answers haltingly.

"I figured we could talk," Dick says, because that's pretty much all he's got, right now. If there was one thing Bruce never taught him to be any good at, it was emotions; compartmentalizing them and then turning them into fuel was all he ever knew how to do, even before the Batman turned him into Robin.

"What's there to talk about?" Hank says, without looking up. He's got his hands folded together in front of him now, fingers stiff out to the front and his knuckles pressed flush together. The heels of his hands shush against one another as he rubs his palms slowly across each other. Dick thumbs the denim of his own jeans and then takes a seat, delicately, on the arm of the sofa.

"You should eat something," Dick tries instead.

"I'm not hungry," Hank declines flatly. He still hasn't looked at Dick, even out of the corner of his eyes, and the latter isn't altogether sure that the other man is ever planning to look away from the coffee stain on the floor that he's got his eyes fixed on ever again.

"At least have a drink, or something," Dick requests.

"Fine," Hank grunts. "Get me a beer."

"And then we'll talk?"

"Jesus. If you insist."

Dick goes into the kitchen to get a beer, and then thinks better of letting the other man drink when he's in this state, even as he's staring a few bottles in the face, and a good few cans, too. He stands up and shuts the door to the refrigerator, holding the handle as he tries to decide what to say.

"There's no beer left."

"What? Jesus. I haven't drank that much..."

"How about we go get some more? We can get something to eat while we're at it. For... Dawn's sake, if not for yours."

"Dawn's dead," Hank says, and it's cold. It's really cold.

All the same, he gets his jacket and wraps it around his shoulders before walking to the door and waiting for Dick to catch up with his hand on the knob. He turns it and steps out, past a quizzical Kory, whose eyebrows fly towards her hairline at the sight of the two men leaving together so quickly and so suddenly after she had exited herself.

"We're going to buy more beer," Dick says.

"There's some in the fridge." Her brow furrows.

"Sh," Dick puts his finger to his lips, and follows Hank's heavy footfalls to the stairwell, staring at his slumped shoulders as they walk down the stairs in single file, the former feeling a little bit hidden by the latter's wide back. He feels like Robin, trapped behind a raging Batman, once again. It's not a feeling he enjoys, but it is one that he's used to, even after all of this time away from Bruce's alter ego's influence.

He also knows equally all too well how easy it is to lose himself in the darkness of another vigilante, so he keeps a check on himself when they step into the cool outdoors and he receives a grimace from Hank.

"Where's your car? I'm not walking."

"Down here," Dick says, leading the other man with him. It's once again a familiar sensation; but this time he's remembering helping Bruce to the Batmobile after a particularly brutal battle with the Joker and Harley Quinn, or perhaps Bane. He's remembering the coppery scent of blood, even though there's none of that now; it's all been shed, and has dried, or, more likely, been washed away, in the alley beside the building they've just left behind. His eyes find the maw of the alley she fell in, and he looks away before Hank can catch his gaze's track.

They climb in the car and they're off; a dual road in Dick's mind, this one in DC just as well as the one in Gotham, only this time he's driving, and not watching a bleeding Batman struggle with the wheel.

He supposes Hank might think something similar of him; a dark mess of a man, all hair in his eyes and blood spattered on his cheeks, after the warehouse raid when he'd saved their lives... for all it did. He might see him as some damaged thing, barely in control, driving him down the street towards some inevitable doom, this doom being a conversation with someone he hates about something he doesn't want to talk about, instead of a potential crash or death.

He supposes Hank might be right, too.

~

"I don't even want this," Hank says to his burger, when the plate is front of him at the small bar and grill they end up at.

"Just eat, Hank," Dick complains. "Dawn would kill me if I let you waste away."

"Dawn can't kill anyone," Hank responds flatly.

Dick grimaces. "You know what I meant."

"Sure thing, bird boy."

"Pot calling the kettle black, much?" 

Those sardonically spoken words silence Hank for the moment, though they also earn Dick a hateful stare before the other man digs into his burger, grunting quietly as he chows down and eats at last. Dick wonders how long it's been since Hank's last proper meal– was it before Dawn?

Probably so.

"So," Hank says, when he's halfway done with his burger.

"So, what?" Dick asks.

"Let me finish," Hank bites out. "So, are you just going to fuck off back to Gotham after this? Or Detroit, or wherever? Just call this a done deal because you made me eat a meal, and paid your respects to Dawn? Tie a bow on it all and disappear again, like classic Dick?"

Dick stares at him for a moment, oscillating between agreement with everything that was said, and irritation that Hank thinks so little of him.

"No. I'm going to stick around for a while. What about you? What are you going to do, now? Still quitting?"

"Not quite," Hank shakes his head. "I've got to clean up the last few gun depots, and make sure none of the buyers got smart to them being up for grabs. Can't have another trade popping up when I go."

"You're kidding," Dick says, incredulous. "You're going back out there?"

"It's what Dawn would have wanted."

"No, it's what you want. Dawn wanted you to get out, and you know it. She wanted you to rest, to heal. To get better."

"There's no reason to get better," Hank snarls. "Not without her. Without her, I'm just me. I'm just... the fuck, forget it, Dick."

"Forget what?" Dick pushes.

"You can't fix me anymore than you can fix yourself, or your old man, so give it a fucking rest."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Is that a-? Jesus, are you always like this? I forget."

Dick sits back and eats a couple of fries, staring Hank down across the small table. The two of them combined dwarf the thing, and if they happened to fight right here in this dinky restaurant, they could probably ruin the place within ten punches, so they had better not do that.

"I'm not trying to fix you, Hank. I'm just trying to help you."

"Well, I can't be helped, either, and we both know you're not going to give me the help I need, in the first place. So, just stay out of my way. For all I care, go ahead and fuck off right out of town. That's all you're good for."

They eat the rest of their meal in silence, and Dick doesn't buy Hank beer like he said he would. Hank forgot his wallet, so he goes without.

~

"You're sure you're going to be okay here?" Kory asks, standing hesitant beside the door to the apartment and fixing Dick with a level stare. 

"Yeah," he says. "Hank isn't so bad, when you get down to it. He's certainly not going to kill me, or anything, if that's what you're asking."

"He wants to, sometimes," Rachel supplies unhelpfully.

"Thanks, Rachel," Dick sighs.

"Call if you need anything," Kory reaches out, squeezes Dick's arm.

"Thanks, Kory," he says.

She nods, gives him a tight-lipped smile, and then hikes her purse up under her arm and takes Rachel gently by the shoulder, leading her away, towards Garfield, waiting at the top of the stairs that lead to the door outside. Dick watches until they disappear around the corner and then shuts the door to the apartment, leaning his head on the door jam and wondering what's gotten into him that he's doing this.

"Just you and me, Boy Wonder," Hank's voice reaches him in his reverie, and he turns to find the man looming there in the shadows between the kitchen wall and the foyer, holding a half-empty bottle of beer. "What are we going to do with each other?"

"Get our heads on straight," Dick says, maybe serious, maybe an attempt at levity.

"Like that's ever going to happen for you," Hank snorts.

"And you think you're some kind of paragon of mental health?" Dick responds in kind.

"Touche," Hank grunts. He turns away and shuffles into the living room, leaving Dick in cloying silence.

He sighs and follows Hank. There's a long road ahead of him.

~

On the first night, he wakes up and sees his car pull away from the curb. He follows Hank, running across the rooftops and leaping from one to the next, jacket snapping behind him in the cold night air. He watches as the other man photographs a depot, and then another, and another, until a fourth one caps them off. Unfortunately for them both, the fourth one also presents a buy going down.

On the second night, he catches Hank getting his costume on.

"Take that off," Dick demands.

"Or what, you'll make me?" Hank asks, crossing his arms tersely.

"You go out there tonight, with this little prep, you're going to get yourself killed, going it alone," Dick says.

"Then I get killed. You know how to help me."

"That's not an option. Not right now. And you need to go back to sleep."

"Fine. I'll do more prep."

Dick stays awake all night, watching Hank sand his gloves, watching Hank do push-ups. Hank doesn't leave, and neither does Dick. They're at a stalemate, instead. 

It's not an altogether unpleasant experience, but he would have preferred to have slept, when it comes right down to it.

~

He uses the satellites– for some reason, Bruce still hasn't revoked his access, perhaps thinking he's being generous to his ex-Robin, even with a new bird in the manor in the form of Jason- and checks out the depots that Hank wants to hit. Each one has sparse men, except for, as he expected, the fourth one, which finds itself more heavily fortified by the hour, and probably harboring the new leader of the gun running business.

"Here," he says, throwing down printouts of the information in front of Hank, who's clipping his toenails at the kitchen table with his feet up on the edge, frowning at Dick periodically. "Don't say I never did anything for you."

"I don't need your help."

"Well, you got it. So, you're welcome."

"My hero," Hank says dryly, and picks up the printouts to read them over, stretching his legs out under the table.

~

Hank stumbles in at a quarter to four, blood running freely from a wound in his side. Dick, who had been dozing on the couch waiting for Hawk to return from his outing in the city, comes immediately to his feet, all vestiges of sleep lost at the sight.

"What happened?"

"What does it look like? I got shot."

"Dammit, Hank. How bad is it?" Dick goes to get the first aid kit from Hank and Dawn's bathroom, grabbing a couple various painkillers for good measure; while he would never take them himself, he's more than privy to the other man's habits, and that he's basically dependent on the things to get around at this point in his life, after all the fractures, gunshots, concussions, contusions, and other manner of injuries.

"I'm just grazed," Hawk rasps as he lies down on the floor.

"Don't you dare go to sleep," Dick tells him seriously. "Did you get hit in the head?"

"Once or twice. Maybe."

Dick thinks about yelling at Hank, but figures it won't make any difference, so he just takes a seat on his haunches beside the other man instead, and starts stripping off the top layer of his suit so he can get at the other man's torso and clean the wound in his side.

It's just above his hip, and, true to his word, it's mostly a flesh wound, and nothing altogether serious, though it can't feel too good.

"You need painkillers?"

"If you're offering."

Dick shakes out two pills and gives them to Hank, who swallows them dry. Meanwhile, he unboxes bandages and soaks them in rubbing alcohol before pressing them snugly against the wound and holding them there.

Hank hisses in surprise, jerking halfway up and turning his cowled head sharply. "The fuck are you doing, Dick?"

"Cleaning your wounds. Lay back down before you hurt yourself even more."

"Jesus, you're worse than Dawn. Fine, fine."

Dick is quiet for a moment, but finds he can't resist making a dig at the other man. "Worse than Dawn, huh? That's a tall order. She was one of a kind."

As it turns out, his dig comes out less as such, and more as a wistful memory of the woman.

"That she was," Hank breathes out, and for a moment Dick is seized by the fear that Hank is going to casually just go ahead and die of blood loss right here on the carpet, and he'll have to figure out what to say when he calls for the ambulance, not to even bother mentioning the fact that Hank will be, of course, dead.

'I didn't know he was Hawk until he came in bleeding,' would be a convincing one, if not for the fact that he's got no good place to hide his case containing his Robin suit.

When Hank goes on breathing, that fear abates, and Dick continues cleaning his wounds, including assorted small cuts on his jaw.

"How'd you get these?"

"I threw myself in the window to get the element of surprise. Felt kind of like Batman when I did it, you know?"

"Batman would never be so stupid," Dick says- and that's a dig, thank god. He finally found something unkind to say, despite his immediate terror at the sight of a bleeding Hawk.

"Well, Batman's no genius, either," Hank laughs wetly, looking up for a moment. "I mean, he hired you, right?"

"'Hired' isn't really the right word," Dick says under his breath.

"Then what is?" Hank wonders, letting his head fall back against the carpet again. 

"Adopted, maybe," Dick tells the other man hesitantly. He's still got a healthy fear of outing Bruce, despite their differences; and, nowadays, it would hurt him and Jason just as much if the Batman got exposed for who he truly is, so he supposes he can at least pretend that's the reason, and that he doesn't really care about his former mentor anymore.

"So, that makes you the Batman's kid," Hank muses. "You got his charm."

"And his bedside manner," Dick says, irritated, as he jabs a needle into the other man's skin and starts stitching the wound shut rapidly.

"The fuck! You could warn a guy, first," Hawk complains.

Dick doesn't answer that, not really seeing a reason to. He just keeps stitching.

~

"No more depots until you're healed from this one," Dick orders Hank the next morning, when he throws the paper down in front of the mending man. 

Hank's got his feet up on the coffee table, shirtless and wearing shorts, bandages here and there peppering him finely. He's not glowering as much as normal, lately, but he doesn't look all that happy, either, and he declined coffee when Dick offered it to him, so he can't be in too good of a mood, even after hitting the gun stash last night.

"No more depots until I'm healed from this one," Hank echoes. "Fine, Boy Wonder. Jesus. You'd think you were my mother..."

"If I were your mother, you'd be better behaved," Dick deadpans.

Hank laughs uproariously at that, and Dick scowls, but finds himself smiling a moment later in the kitchen, listening to the last smattering of chuckles emerging from his charge in the living room. Against all odds, somehow, he's glad to hear Hank laughing; and he even likes the sound of it, after so much silence.

He feels, strangely, warm, even in this small apartment with a window heater that sputters and spits when the wind chill goes below twenty.

~

His phone rings when he's halfway asleep two nights later, and he rolls over to answer it, spying Hank's feet sticking off the bed in the next room, door slightly ajar. 

His caller ID, simultaneously his savior and the bane of his existence, warns him that it's Bruce calling. He stares at the man's name until the call stops and the screen goes dark again, the white letters burned into his vision as he waits for what he knows is coming.

The phone rings again.

"Hello?"

"Master Grayson. Master Wayne was just trying to reach you..."

"Yeah, Alfred. I know. It's just..."

The line is silent except for the soft tones in the background for a moment. Alfred, unwilling to speak ill of Bruce even so much as to find voice for Dick's thoughts, appears to sparely even breathe on the other end of the call.

"I'm just not ready yet, Alfred. Can you tell him that? I still need my space."

"I understand, sir. It's just that Master Wayne heard about your friend's passing and wanted to give you his regards. He also heard you have been staying with Hank Hall of late and was curious."

"I'm sure he was," Dick grunts. "Thanks for calling, Alfred."

"Yes, Master Grayson. Have a good night."

"Have a good night, Alfred."

The line goes dead, dial tone setting in, and Dick lowers it to his side, sighing, before raising it back up to toss the phone on his chest after hanging up fully.

A shift catches his attention, and he finds Hank, arm raised to lean his elbow against the frame of his bedroom door, staring at him. He's lost in the darkness, his features obscured totally by the shadows, and yet Dick can almost imagine the quizzically pitying expression he's getting right now from the other man.

"Bruce?"

"Well, Alfred, but- yeah. Bruce called first. He wanted to give his condolences."

Hank snorts roughly. "He hated me and Dawn. Bullshit he was sending his condolences."

Dick doesn't argue with that. Bruce never gave any sign he cared about the other vigilantes; he doesn't doubt, however, that the Batman would be calling to check how the former Robin is handling the loss of a friend that he wasn't meant to have.

One of only two or three friends Dick had ever really had, particularly since his parents, prior to finding Kory, Rachel, and Garfield.

He stares at Hank, seeing him in a new light despite the dark as they lapse into silence together, Hank's free hand coming up to scrub at his eyes, cleaning the sleep from their corners with an audible, if small, scratching sound.

"Well, anyway, I'm awake now. How about you sit up and scoot over and we can see what's on late night TV?"

"Fine by me," Dick says, and does so.

Hank takes a seat beside him, radiating warmth from being under the covers on his bed. He gestures with the remote, punching a button with one blunt finger, and the TV switches on, a light in the dark that reveals his features in a stark, faint blue relief. His square jaw is relaxed, and his short hair is mussed from both disdain for his routines as well as sleep itself. His eyes reflect the late night talk show that comes on, and Dick just watches.

He just watches.

~

Hank hits the second depot a week later without event, returning home huffing and puffing and red-faced with glory, but somehow not as much as Dick remembers. There's something missing from his demeanor, from what was once there after the three of them would pull a mission together in the dark of the night, sneaking off without Bruce's watchful eye to keep them apart.

Dick watches as Hank strips off his suit in the middle of the room, throwing the cape over the back of a kitchen chair and the cowl over the top of the coffee maker, his gloves the last thing to come off, leaving him in his boxers, sweaty and half-grinning.

That's when he sees it, after all; the half-grin that defines it, because the look doesn't reach his eyes, which look, instead of elated, disappointed. There's something he was expecting that he didn't get. Perhaps Dick has known all along, and that's why he's been staying here, trying his best to figure out how to take care of someone who doesn't want or need to be taken care of.

With Dawn gone, Hank has nothing to live for. Dick feels responsible, and not just for that- because he does feel responsible, for Dawn, that is, knows that if he hadn't come here with Rachel, or if he had stepped into the fight sooner, then the Nuclear Family might not have come as well to look for him and her, or at least might have been easier to take down. Dawn might have lived. But he also feels responsible for Hank, like they've been intrinsically, irrevocably linked by the loss of Dawn due to Dick's negligence, and he's got some duty to be here for the other man, after everything.

This isn't the responsibility that he feels for Rachel or Garfield, though. This is something different; something desperately warm, like a fire that's trying its best to get air. This is a duty just like keeping the streets safe, but, impossibly, more intense.

"What?" Hank asks the staring Dick.

"Nothing," Dick says.

~

Hank is reading the morning paper, and Dick is trying to decide if he's going to bother asking the other man if he wants coffee this morning after being declined every morning so far, when there's a knock on the front door of the apartment. Hank folds his paper shut and looks back in confusion, brow furrowing deeply. Dick leans around the corner and stares at the door like it's just come alive and knocked of its own accord before setting the mug of coffee he made for himself down on the counter and walking over to peer out the peephole.

"Hey, Dick," Jason Todd says, right on cue. "Surprise, it's me!"

"Oh, Jesus," Hank says, as soon as Dick opens the door. "Another Bat-boy?"

"Batman sent me," Jason says unnecessarily.

He steps inside, looking around, and then lowers his case to the ground. Dick knows all too well what it contains, and gives it a level stare before giving the same to Jason and then closing the door behind him. 

"Just like he told Alfred to call me," Dick says, dissatisfied. 

"Yeah, like that," Jason agrees. "Man, he's worried about you. I'm not kidding, I've never seen Br- Batman act like this before. He genuinely cares that you lost a friend. He wants to help you if he can."

Jason paces deeper into the apartment, stopping behind the couch to meet Hank's eyes in a stare down. Neither of them blink, but Jason does look away to set his eyes back on Dick again.

"I'm sure he does," Dick says.

"Did you just almost say his name?" Hank says. "That's a big no-no, you know."

"Was that a joke?" Dick looks back, surprised.

"Who knows," Hank shrugs, and turns back to his paper.

"Anyway," Jason interrupts, "Batman sent me to see you. Said not to come back until I was sure you were okay. You okay, man?"

"I'm something," Dick says, but he's pretty sure he's a little more irritated, if not outright angry, than okay. He's sure Bruce has good intents, but he's trying to get space from the Bat-family, and here the man of the hour is, sending his new protege along to invade Dick's privacy in Hank's home, and intrude upon what he's trying to get done here.

"Is something okay? Because if you're okay, I can just leave again."

"I'm fine, okay, Jason?" Dick says.

"Okay, right." The new Robin turns to face Hank and points, thoughtful. "Hey, you're- you're Hawk, right?"

"The one and only," Hank agrees, without looking back.

"So you're the one who's been tearing up the streets taking down the weapons depots? Can I join? Since I'm here already."

"No," Dick says sharply. "Hank, you know you're not hitting the third one until next week."

"Hey," Hank says, sitting forward and holding his hands up in a 'what can you do' gesture. "I've got a Robin on my side now. I'm good as gold."

~

Jason comes in first, followed shortly by a limping Hank, who grimaces at the sight of Dick's critical stare as he stirs the coffee he's just heated in the microwave to get it evenly warm. 

"I just pulled something," he says. "You should be looking at him- kid's scary calm out there. What's Batman teach you birds, anyway?"

"More than you know," Jason tosses over his shoulder.

"Can it," Dick orders. "Let me see your leg, Hank."

"If you wanted me to take my pants off, you could just ask."

"Very funny. Hurry up."

"Should I leave the room for this?" Jason wonders, cocking his head as he peels off his domino mask and tosses it across the room to land on the kitchen table.

Hank sits down and shoves his boots off before dropping his pants and giving Dick his leg to look at. Dick bends the joint a few times, and runs his hand along either side of the leg, feeling for hot spots or anything that might indicate a more severe injury, like a torn ligament, than what the other man is letting on with his limping on the way in. 

"Fine," the former Robin says after a moment, standing back up at his full height. "You're probably okay. You want ice to hold on it?"

Dick walks into the kitchen to get his coffee back, sure he's going to need it, with the other two vigilantes hyped up on adrenaline and interested in making stupid jokes that are nothing but a waste of valuable time- though he's not quite sure exactly what else he'd be doing with it, anything is better than Jason and Hank's jokes, he knows that much.

"What am I, five? No, I'm good. Just bring me some painkillers."

"You're not getting any painkillers," Dick tells him resolutely. "You're kicking that habit."

"That's news to me," Hank grumbles. He crosses his arms over his chest and, for all intents and purposes, pouts.

"Batman definitely wouldn't be down for you taking painkillers to cover up wounds," Jason tells Dick.

"Tell that to him," Dick gestures back at Hank. "Anyway, Jason, if you're staying, there's a guest room. I can get you set up in there."

"I guess I'm running a bed and breakfast, now," Hank mutters in the living room, already done pouting, to Dick's unending surprise.

Jason follows Dick into the extra bedroom and watches as he turns down the sheets and flips the pillow, patting it and then opening the closet, gesturing inside wordlessly. There are a few blankets, and a small television with an aging DVD player on top, inside.

The new Robin nods in agreement, and Dick heads back into the living room to deal with Hank.

~

"You should help us hit the last depot," Hank needles Dick early the next morning, when Jason is still asleep in the guest room, and they are sitting at the kitchen table. 

Dick sighs as Hank scoots a little closer, bumping their knees together to get the former Robin's attention on him. The other man is annoyingly persistent, when he decides he wants something- and, for some reason, he's decided that one Robin isn't enough. He wants both of them to help him take down the final weapons depot, and end his vigilante career.

"I'm not going," Dick says. "And that's final."

"You could watch my back better than the kid," Hank persuades. "Jason might be good, but he's headstrong. He could miss something, and end up in trouble. Which means we'd both be in trouble. You, on the other hand- I don't think I ever saw you make a mistake in the field. You can be a little violent, sure, but other than that? You're bordering on being as good as the fucking Bat."

"As kind as that is," Dick says dryly, because he hates being compared to Batman, "I'm still not going on your mission with you. Jason can go if he wants, but I'm not. And, for the record? You're answering to Batman if he gets himself hurt out there playing hero with you."

"I think he's your kid brother," Hank points out, but drops it all the same.

He takes a long sip of his coffee, and Dick stares for a moment. Something's different about him this morning; there's something more alive about him, something changed, and he can't put his finger on it for sure until Hank gets up and goes to the bathroom, leaving a half-drank mug behind himself.

~

Dick's dozing again when his phone starts buzzing furiously on the table; he sits up sharply, suddenly sure it's going to be Kory, calling to say that some new villain has shown up to try to get at Rachel like the Nuclear Family did, but he's relieved to find that it's just Jason, undoubtedly calling to brag that they've finished with the final depot. He'll be, Dick reasons, as he raises the phone to his ear and answers, too excited to wait until he and Hank arrive back to the apartment to gloat to the former Robin.

"Hello?"

There are gunshots, and Dick's eyes widen.

"Jason? Jason!"

No one says anything, and he hangs up, launching to his feet and striding back and forth like a caged animal for a few seconds before grabbing the keys to his car and bolting out of the apartment. 

Dick takes the stairs four at a time, leaping from one to the next, and vaulting the railing on the last two flights of stairs, nearly knocking straight into the nice little old lady from the second floor in the process. He doesn't bother tossing an apology over his shoulder as he sprints, shoving the door open with a thunderous collision, to his car.

The trunk pops open and he grabs his case, running down the alleyway where Dawn fell and kneeling to enter his retinal scan.

Then, he dons the suit.

~

"You know," Two Face says, playing his coin across his fingers as he walks back and forth in front of Robin and Hawk, knelt with their hands bound behind them, to the grill of a truck on a lift, "when the boys told me to come to DC after they broke me out of Arkham, I thought they were pulling my leg. I mean, Gotham's my place! But, now- with all the guns I've got- I'm starting to see the massive scores I could come across without Batman around to get in my way."

"Go to hell," Hawk spits blood on the ground in front of himself.

"Oh, I probably will," the villain says, unconcerned. "But, first- my predecessor had quite the interesting injury when he was discovered after you and your accomplice's last escapade, Hawk. Dove, right?"

"Don't say her name," Hawk seethes.

"Where is she, anyway? Oh, I suppose it doesn't matter. In this business, people go all the time. As I was saying- my predecessor, he had his genitals cut clean off with a pair of garden shears. I understand from the men I absorbed from his group that he was going to do that to you, before... and then Robin, here, turned the tables on him."

"I wasn't even here," Robin snarls. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Dent- but when Batman gets wind of this, he's going to catch the first flight out here to kick your fucking ass."

"Maybe so," Dent agrees. "But your friend Hawk here is going to be one dickless son of a bitch before that happens." He brandishes his gun and then twiddles his coin between his fingers. "Or, maybe, just maybe... it'll be you, little bird. How about we let Lady Luck decide?"

He flips his coin, and then waits.

It doesn't come back down.

"The fuck?" Hawk asks.

One of Two Face's men unleashes a primal scream as he's yanked into the air, a grappling hook punching through his knee and spewing blood and bone across the floor before his disappearance into shadow commences. The other men go awry, running in every which direction as they fire into the air.

"Batman?!" Two Face exclaims.

"Not quite," Robin grins from his place on the floor, "but you know this guy, too."

From above comes a shadow with a billowing cape, slamming to ground with his staff snapping open; he sweeps Two Face's ankles before the villain can raise his gun to shoot Robin, and then he's in motion again. He's tearing across the room as he flings two wing-dings across the room. Each bury themselves into a henchman's shooting hand, and then both of them are on the ground as once more the shadow emerges into light.

"Good boy," Hawk grins at the sight of the first Robin, looming there as the henchman scream.

He flings two more wing-dings; these sever the bonds of Hawk and the second Robin, freeing them to join him in his attack on the forces of Two Face. 

"There's two Robins, now?!" Two Face yells.

"Hell, yeah," Hawk says, and curb-stomps the villain.

Three henchman fire on him; he dodges behind the truck and kicks the release, dropping it between him and them. He army-crawls underneath and emerges behind all three as they try to circle around, only to find him absent. He sucker-punches one, and another earns a kick in the genitals for his efforts to aim at Hawk when he hears the commotion. The third starts shooting wildly.

Both Robins, having disappeared momentarily, reappear; the first jams his staff into the criminal's back, dropping him to his knees. The second kicks the henchman's head into the bumper of the truck, decimating his teeth against it. 

"Jesus," Hawk says.

The taller Robin flings a wing-ding past Hawk, headed upwards; it buries itself in the scope of a rifle that a henchman who had fled to the catwalks was aiming down the sights of. Hawk runs for the stairs, and ascends to the upper level. The two Robins use their grapple guns to join him, and they fan out.

Hawk uppercuts a criminal that tries to get the jump on him. The shorter Robin, in the midst of a bout of parkour, flies past him, and kicks the rifleman from moments prior in the nose, sending him flying over the railing. He fires his grapple gun at another and yanks him, leaving him hanging above the floor, screaming as blood streams from a hole in his foot.

The first Robin dashes up and shoves Hawk into cover, ducking down beside him as two henchman unload assault rifles in their direction.

"You still got Two Face's coin?" the latter asks.

"Sure," Robin says, procuring it. "Why?"

"Just thought it'd be fun to steal the sucker," Hawk shrugs, and then they stand.

The second Robin stands over the two fallen criminals, holding one by the collar and standing on the other's neck.

"You had enough?" he calls out to the room.

"I'd say so," Hawk grunts. He adjusts his gloves and paces down the stairs to Two Face, who's struggling across the hard concrete floor to reach his handgun again. The vigilante stomps on his hand, all the fingers and bones crunching with the impact, and then he kicks the villain in the face, breaking his already ruined nose.

They all catch their breath.

"Let's go," the first Robin says, and, within seconds, they disappear into the night.

~

The trio blasts into the apartment through an open window, conveniently left that way by one member of the group, though they probably couldn't tell you which if they tried; Hank tugs off his mask and grins widely at Dick as he removes his domino mask and holds it at his side.

"Fuck Batman," Hank says. "Jesus, Dick."

"Yeah, Bruce is a badass, but, seriously, man," Jason agrees.

"Who's Bruce?" Hank's brow furrows before realization alights on his features.

"Jason," Dick lets his head fall back in exasperation. "You did not just out Batman. He's going to go ballistic."

"Not if neither of us tell him," Jason suggests impishly.

"I won't tell," Hank puts up a hand. "Scout's honor. Bruce Wayne, though? Seriously, Dick?"

"Let's not have this conversation," Dick says. "Just be glad I saved your asses back there."

"I think we all saved each other's asses, a few times," Jason notes.

"I saved your asses first, and that's what's important," Dick grunts. "No more strikes. We're done. Got it, Hank?"

"Hey, we took down the gun running and we took down Two Face at the same time! I'm good to go!" Hank agrees.

"Good," Dick mutters. "I'm going to go take a shower. You two sort out this... Batman problem."

Jason and Hank exchange a knowing stare with one another as Dick disappears from the room.

Stripping his suit off, Dick glares at himself in the mirror. How could he have been so stupid, he wonders, to almost let Hank, not to mention Jason, die because he was too petty to put on the bird costume again once in a while? He'd done it before, after all- and this time, he'd resisted so much he'd almost lost friends.

He switches the shower on to near boiling and steps in, twisting the knob a little further when the water starts to cool, scrubbing his skin until it's almost red and raw from the intensity. Then, he gets out and picks up his gear, packing it in his case before returning to the living room, where Jason and Hank are still gloating over their victory.

~

Hank sits at the kitchen table, waiting for him, when he returns from going for a late night walk to clear his head.

"Jason went to bed," he tells Dick. "Where've you been?"

"Walking," Dick says shortly.

"What are you so fucking pissed off about?" Hank wonders. "We took down Two Face and all the men, and all the depots have been turned in. We won."

"You won," Dick corrects. "I just... screwed around and wasted time. You and Jason almost died."

"That's what this is about?" Hank snorts. "Look, Dick, the truth is that we didn't die, because you swooped in at just the right time. I knew you liked to make a dramatic entrance- and, Jesus, did you."

"Almost too dramatic," Dick mutters.

"Quit beating yourself up," Hank says loudly. 

When Dick looks back, the other man's arms are corded with tension where they show out of his loose grey muscle shirt, and his eyes are stormy in the dim lighting of the rising morning outside the blinded windows. He looks furious with Dick, for some reason that the former Robin can't comprehend.

"What?" Dick asks, furrowing his brow and shaking his head in vague confusion.

"You've been here for months now, nursing me back to health, and taking care of me when I was too busy crying myself to sleep to even take a fucking shower," Hank says. "Quit beating yourself up like you never did anything for me. Or maybe you are the dick I always thought you were, if you can't see that you've been bending over backwards taking care of Rachel, and me, and everyone else."

"You had the right to grieve," Dick goes to turn away again.

"And I did, thanks to you," Hank insists. "You hear me? I grieved, Dick. Hell, maybe I'm still grieving, and maybe I'll grieve forever. I'm still grieving for my brother, after all."

"Okay," Dick says.

"I'm trying to say thank you, Dick," Hank says harshly. It's said with a double meaning- he's calling Dick a dick at the same time that he's using his name, again.

"That's a new one," the former Robin says dryly.

"No, it's not," Hank says, and he stands, coming to take ahold of Dick's upper arm and turn him so that they're face to face in the kitchen. 

"No, it's not," Dick echoes him.

Hank is warm, probably with how angry Dick has made him. He's radiating it again, and Dick finds himself gravitating a little closer to the other man, for some reason. He smells faintly of sweat, underneath the scent of soap from his rushed shower, after Dick stole all the hot water for his own angst-filled one.

Hank's hand hasn't left Dick's arm yet. It's not tight, anymore, not the bruising grip Hank used to turn the former Robin to face him, anymore. It's gentle, now, his callouses shushing just as gently against Dick's canvas jacket as he rubs his thumb in small circles on the fabric, a touch intended for the skin underneath. The touch is a lifeline that brings them both back down to Earth from their elevated voices, nearing an argument with one another until now. They calm again, staring at each other in the kitchen.

"You care what happens to me," Hank says, finally. 

"How could I not?" Dick wonders.

"Dick," Hank sighs, "I always knew you were into Dawn... but I never knew you were into me."

Then, Hank seals his mouth across Dick's. Dick is surprised at himself when he kisses back immediately, despite that he's hardly even noticed, himself- and yet Hank, not the most observant of the lot, has him figured out completely, at least in this regard.

Hank tastes like coffee, first of all, and then a myriad of other things. Dick doesn't have time to take them all in, because someone clears their throat and interrupts the moment. Hank lets go of Dick's arm and steps back, blinking hard as he turns; Dick looks, too, and discovers Jason peering between the two of them curiously.

"Well," he weighs his words, "looks like you're okay, Dick. In fact, you look better than okay, so I'm just going to get out of your hair. Let's agree not to tell Bruce that I didn't figure you two out sooner, okay?"

"Okay," Dick says, because he's pretty sure he can't just ask Jason not to tell Bruce what he's seen just now. He resigns himself with a sigh that he's going to have to talk to the man about this, if not anything else, because, even with everything else considered, the Batman also happens to be the closest thing he's got to a father these days- and Bruce does care about him, as loathe as he is to admit to it.

Jason gets his case and disappears out the front door with a goodbye tossed over his shoulder as he goes. Hank has his arms crossed over his chest tersely, but he relaxes a little when Jason exits, shoulders leaving their set state.

"Where were we?" he asks Dick.

Dick decides words won't serve this situation, and just kisses Hank again instead.

The other man kisses him back immediately, grinning faintly between them as he takes hold of the lapels of Dick's jacket and peels it back, throwing it on the floor in the kitchen. Dick grunts softly and toes out of his shoes, following Hank's clumsy backwards steps towards the bedroom to keep their mouths together. Their tongues perform a dance between themselves as Dick unzips his jeans and sheds those, too.

When both of them are bare to the world, they fall across the bed and entwine their bodies. Dick holds to the great muscles in Hank's back as Hank holds to his biceps, and Hank sighs loudly between them when their lips part once more, their romp turning to a still moment.

"I can't get it up," he admits. "Sorry, Dick."

"It's okay." The former Robin starts to get up.

"It's not your fault," Hank says quickly. "It's just- the drugs, and the stress, and. You know. I just need time to get myself straightened out, and then we can."

"That's fine with me," Dick assures him, and considers his next move carefully before he makes it. He lies down, pressing his back into Hank's strong chest, and feels the hard press of their bodies together. 

Hank's arm falls heavily across his shoulders, and they lie there for a few minutes in companionable, happy silence.

"You know," Hank says, "I'm pretty sure Bruce is going to be way more pissed at you for fraternizing with another vigilante than he was when we were just friends."

Dick laughs loudly and freely. Behind him, Hank smiles widely. He feels warm, making Dick laugh like that over a situation that might have otherwise made him agonize for hours, or days, on end. 

He also just happens to find that he likes the sound of Dick's laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> ((A/N: I have a couple more ideas for this, so I might add a one shot or two more on later to this, but for now, I hope you enjoyed!))


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